


Pudu

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 16:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Olórin always enjoys when the forest spirit comes to visit.





	Pudu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “21 (other spirit) with Radagast/Gandalf” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s washing the dishes when he hears it: the telltale laugh of the forest spirit, one that’s appeared to him more and more since their first meeting. His peers in Dale didn’t believe him when he spoke of it, but few have been as far into the outskirts as where Olórin lives. They’ve never seen anything stranger than a dwarf, and they can’t conceive of beings that rise from the earth like fog in the valley, that make flowers blossom beneath their feet when they dance, that summon rain with just a song. These are the things the stories of old like to say, but the spirit Olórin knows prefers fauna to flora. 

In the wide window above his sink, Olórin can see Aiwendil playing, chasing after deer before they gallop after him, nuzzling into his stomach when they catch him and receiving a warm embrace in return. Aiwendil pets them with bristling affection, scratches behind their ears and feeds them berries from his hand. Some days he comes as an old man, his grey beard alive with birds, and others he’s young and free, with short brown locks curled messily atop his head. Today his youthful face is clear and smooth, his eyes bright in the morning sun. His brown robes swirl about him as he moves, darting playfully about the garden.

And it brings Olórin a smile, like it always does to see him: Aiwendil is delight itself: a kind long forgotten, that most Men can hardly see.

Olórin’s grown old and moved away, and he’s seen many places and read many books, and he likes to think himself at least a little _wise_ , as much as Men can be. He likes to think that Aiwendil appears to him because Aiwendil is _fond_ of him, something Olórin fully returns. If he’d known such beauty lay about the woods, he would’ve moved out to it decades earlier. Watching Aiwendil makes Olórin feel young again, and for a time, when he’s trapped in that spell of _just the two of them in a bright summer’s day_ , he is.

His hands are as strong as they once were, but he keeps them in the water, finishing off his plates. He’s a patient man, and Aiwendil will still be there when he finishes. Finally, he sets the last glass in the rack, and he dries his hands, gaze still lost amidst the garden.

He’d meant to begin making lunch on his newly cleaned counters, but now it seems a shame to dine alone, and he thinks he might like company while he rolls his bed and forms his salad. So he heads out for the door, emerging into the vivid sun. Aiwendil instantly turns to look at him, now carrying a speckled fawn like a cherished prize. 

Aiwendil drifts forward with feet so light they never bend the grass, and he deposits the fawn right into Olórin’s arms. It’s a struggle to holds the animal properly—though it lays, docile and sweet, against him, its legs are long and delicate, and he fears to drop or crush it. As soon as he’s confident enough in his grip, he bends his knees and sinks down to the grass, helping right the fawn again.

Stumbling onto all fours, the fawn shakes itself like shedding water, then bounds off in great leaps towards its mother. Aiwendil watches it go, then whistles, and it looks back, ears twitching. Aiwendil tosses it a berry that appears right from the air, and the fawn catches it in its mouth, chewing happily.

Laughing, Aiwendil turns back to Olórin, more round, purple berries tumbling from his palm. He lifts them up in offering, and Olórin dares to pluck one up, even though the last time he ate something from Aiwendil’s hand, it was a mushroom that made him see new colours in the dark.

The berry tastes sweet and faintly of cinnamon, giving no strange effects. They would make for a good pie, he thinks, and perhaps the perfect dessert to have tonight. He’s sure Aiwendil would give him enough. And he hopes Aiwendil would stay to eat it.

For now, Olórin offers his hand in return. Aiwendil looks at it curiously but takes it, asking, “What will you do now?” The question comes out odd, but most of Aiwendil’s do. Olórin never minds. On the few times his brother Curumo’s seen Aiwendil on visits, he’s professed the forest spirit mad from too many mushrooms. But Curumo’s never had the love for all life that Olórin and Aiwendil share, and Olórin pays those words little mind.

He answers, “Treat you to lunch, perhaps,” and Aiwendil smiles wide at the prospect.

Olórin guides him back inside, leaving the door open on the way, so that Aiwendil can sing to his birds while Olórin works, and they can remain as one with the woods as they’ve always been.


End file.
